. ’ ‘Ah. “Oh! please don’t lose yourself in a wilderness of secondary considerations,” she said. Here lay a heap of knockers of all sizes, from the huge lion's head to the small brass rapper: there, a collection of sign-boards, with the names and calling of the owners utterly obliterated. Boys, at the time of which we write, were attired like men of their own day, or certain charity-children of ours; and the stripling in question was dressed in black plush breeches, and a gray drugget waistcoat, with immoderately long pockets, both of which were evidently the cast-off clothes of some one considerably his senior. The porter instantly made his appearance, and Sheppard ordered him to take care of the horses. Bravo!—the best cly-faker of 'em all couldn't have done it better. Baptist Kettleby (for so was the Master named) was a "goodly portly man, and a corpulent," whose fair round paunch bespoke the affection he entertained for good liquor and good living. “I think that’s the right name. "I wonder," said Ruth.
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